


How to Troubleshoot a Kernal Panic

by MayonnaiseJane



Series: On the Debugging of a Human Being [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (between those two), Ableist Language, Canon Compliant, Catatonia, Dissociation, Doctor!Shaw, Episode: s02e22 God Mode, Gen, Heat Stroke, Her Name is Root, Hospitalization, Involuntary Hospitalization, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institution, Missing Scene, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, POV Root (Person of Interest), POV Third Person, Ridge Stone Psychiatric Facility, Road Trip, Robin Farrow, Root centric, Root-centric, Sicfic, Suicidal thoughts (brief), also it's rampant in inpatient, because shaw, catatonic!Root, help I accidentaly a whole fic..., if it's not I'll make corrections, involuntary medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayonnaiseJane/pseuds/MayonnaiseJane
Summary: Missing Scenes from "God Mode." How Root got from Hanford Nuclear Reservation, to the payphone in the hallway at Ridge Stone Psychiatric.(Like a Blue Screen of Death in Windows, Kernel Panic is an action taken by a Linux or Unix operating system upon detecting an internal fatal error from which it cannot safely recover. Kernel Panic is to Blue Screen Of Death as Root is to Admin.)





	1. The End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this in three days of nearly non-stop writing, because it crawled in my head and would not leave. I've never in my life actually finished a story before. I don't know what happened. I accidentally a whole Fic. I have no idea where the ants came from. I might need help.

" **My name is Root**." 

_ Blinding light. Searing pain. A sound like water rushing blots out even the alarms. Falling. Curling inward. Weeping.  _ _ The end of the world _ _. _

_ Up from the chair. When did I sit? Hold my arm. Stop the pain. Stop walking. When did I start? People. Fuzzy people. Finch. Finch's goon. Shaw? Men in suits. Guns. Maybe they'll kill me. Maybe I want them to.  _

_ Only four of us now. Rain. Rain on my skin. Hands everywhere. Straps. Rain on a windowpane. Nothing beyond it. _

* * *

"What in the hell are we going to do with… that?" Shaw asked, from the back seat, jerking a thumb at the vacant form beside her. She'd have preferred to be driving, but was outvoted in favor of Reese. When she tried to claim shotgun it was rightly pointed out that someone other than Finch should probably be in the back in case Root got violent. She hadn't. In fact she hadn't moved a muscle since they buckled her into the seat, except when Shaw, trying to get a reaction, pressed hard on her bullet wound and was rewarded with nonverbal vocalization of protest, and an attempt to lean away from Shaw.

"I don't actually know…" Finch replied, trying, and failing to glance over his shoulder, "On the one hand, she can be incredibly dangerous. On the other hand, so long as she's like… this… she's essentially helpless."

"She's just in shock," Reese shrugged. "That can wear off pretty suddenly. Why don't we just stick her in a motel, prepaid for a week, and get some miles between us."

"Then she's loose," Shaw protested, "and the first thing she'll do when she snaps out of it is come looking for Finch again. That's assuming that she  _ does  _ snap out of this."

"Why wouldn't she?" Reese replied.

"Did I ever mention I have an MD?"

"Really?"

"Really," Finch confirmed. "But she's not licensed to practice… anywhere."

"Thanks for that Finch," Shaw scowled, "Anyway she's not cold or clammy, her pulse is normal, she hasn't lost consciousness this whole time, and she won't drink. Does that sound like shock to you? People in shock are usually thirsty."

"She was clammy when I was dressing the wound."

"And now she's not, which means she's  _ already  _ come out of the initial shock."

"Then what the hell is wrong with her?"

"I'm not a shrink Reese, I'm just saying she's… not all there. I mean I could care less, but if Finch wants to keep her alive, we can't just stick her in a motel room and assume she'll come out of this on her own. Depending on the cause this could last for hours, days, or  _ months _ ."

"We know the cause… the Machine wasn't there and you shot her."

"Well it could be acute stress, from that. But this isn't exactly a normal presentation of that. Usually this kind of thing stems from a preexisting psychological disorder. Bipolar, psychosis, schizophrenia…"

"Is there any way to discern if this is going to persist long term?" Finch inquired.

"If it's acute stress we'll know within the next day or so. The symptoms will ebb and flow. Even if it lasts a the full month, she'll be able to feed herself. If you want to take your chances dumping her off then… it's your funeral. But if it's one of the other causes, it's a complete crapshoot how long the catatonia will last."

"Catatonia… she walked to the car didn't she?" Reese asked, incredulous.

"With Finch guiding every step. Catatonia doesn't always make you a statue, but it does severely limit self directed action. I turned her head away from the window an hour ago, and she hasn't turned back since then. It's kinda creepy."

"If it does turn out to be long term, we may have to check her into a facility," Finch mused.

"I wouldn't recommend that," Shaw shook her head, "their first goal will be to bring her out of it so they can treat the underlying cause. Do you want to be responsible for the damage she causes if she snaps right back to being a psyco killer?"

"Then what would you recommend?"

"I don't know… that's why I  _ asked _ ."

"If this is acute stress it's all going to be moot anyway," Reese offered, "and I don't know about you Finch, but Shaw and I have been up for going on 36 hours now, so why don't we find someplace to sleep for a few hours and we'll reconsider in the morning."

"Someplace with food," Shaw added, "food and a bed."

* * *

_ Pain. Shaw inches from my face. Angry. Strapped in. Tied down. Futile. Don't look. Don't move. Maybe she'll kill me. Maybe I want her to. _

_ Hands. The window is gone. The floor of the car is a sea of ants. Crawling over one another. Black ants. Tiny Black ants. Crawling up my legs. Let them subsume me. _


	2. Chair. Chain. Knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: This is not beta-ed. I have no frigging idea how that middle part in the bathroom got as long as it did, but I couldn't find where to cut anything.

_Momentum stops. Straps release. The ants retreat. Hands. Unsteady._ _Cold. Pain. Wind. Doors._

_Hold my arm. Stop the pain. A walk into dark places._

* * *

"There's a radiator over here under the window," Reese announced, prompting Finch to steer Root in that direction.

"Bathroom first," Shaw interjected, as she came back into the room, paper bags and drink tray in hand. "Unless one of you wants to clean up after her."

"What?"

"Do you not remember the freaking chinese fire drill we had to do so that someone was always watching her when we made our last pitstop? We went to the bathroom. She stayed in the car. If you're going to cuff her to the radiator all night, bathroom first."

"She has a point," Finch changed direction, leading Root toward the bathroom, while Shaw deposited the food on the table and began to dig through the bags trying to determine which one was hers. "Ms. Shaw, a hand here?" He stood at the threshold of the bathroom, Root just two steps inside, at the limits of his reach.

"Right," Shaw huffed, and went over, pushing past Finch and closing the door in his face. "You had better not be faking this," she muttered as she grabbed hold of Root's shoulders and roughly positioned her in front of the toilet.

As Shaw bent down to undo Root's pants, she in turn made another sound of protest, and tried, weakly, to push Shaw away.

"Are you really going to fight me on this?" Shaw asked, standing up.

Root's gaze was still oriented down and to the left, just as Shaw had positioned her head hours before in the car, but her face showed noticeable discomfort and she was trembling.

"How in the hell did that hurt?" Shaw muttered, reaching down to lower Root's fly. No reaction, but as she put her thumbs under the waistband, Root protested again. Ignoring that, Shaw yanked her pants down around her knees, and to her surprise, without prompting, Root immediately sat down, and began to use the toilet for it's intended purpose. "Full bladder. That's how," Shaw muttered to herself, turning away until the room went silent again and stayed that way.

She glanced over her shoulder to see if her patient was finishing the job on her own, and, seeing no such movement, she rolled her eyes, and turned, leaning over Root to pull some toilet paper off the roll, and force it, roughly into Root's unimpeded hand. "I am _not_ wiping you."

She glared bullets at the other woman still stone still, until Root began, at a sloths pace, to take care of herself. "I was _this_ close to pulling up your pants anyway," Shaw scowled, and started tapping her foot irritably. If Root noticed, she made no indication.

When Root was done, and the toilet paper had been dropped in the bowl between her legs, she slowly came to a halt again, like a car on a level surface with no gas. Shaw shrugged and pushed Root forward by the uninjured shoulder, until she stood and started to slowly, slowly, fumblingly, pull up her underwear one handed.

"Fuck this, I'm not waiting for you again," Shaw grumbled, and pushed Root's hand out of the way, taking pants and underwear in hand and pulling them back up, sharply. She didn't bother to close the fly, but turned Root around to the sink, forcibly washing and drying her hands, before pushing her out of the bathroom, and over to the radiator.

"I was beginning to think you fell in," Reese quipped.

"Her fly is down," Finch remarked, at the same time.

"Then one of you can take her to the bathroom next time," Shaw growled, sitting Root in the armchair by the window, and cuffing her to the radiator. "If either of you touched my dinner-" she was silenced as Reese handed her an unopened paper bag, and promptly sat in the remaining chair, roughly opening it and starting to devour the contents with gusto. After a moment she caught Finch staring. "What?"

"Nevermind."

"I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since yesterday," she reached across the table to pick up one of the red plastic straws they were provided for their soda.

"Neither had I," Reese replied. "Neither had any of us."

"Actually," Finch corrected, indicating Root with a glance, "we ate on the plane."

"There's no in flight meal on a stolen Medivac," Shaw grinned, pleased with the stunned look that got out of Finch, and turned to shoot her straw paper at Reese's face.

* * *

_Shaw is hurting me again. Bathroom? Relief. My soul is dead but my body is still alive. Still does the things that bodies do._

_Chair. Chain. Knife at my wrist. A meal. Their mouths move, but I can't hear anything past the static. Finch. Food pressed to my mouth. Nausea. Please stop. Take it away. Shaw. Pain in my gums. Red stabbing spear. The grunt. Pain in my jaw. Cold in my mouth. Ice? Swallow._

_Dark. It should be quiet, but the sound of rushing water will not abate. The whole of the room is covered in tiny black ants. Are they ants? Are my eyes opened or closed? How long have I sat here? Maybe I'm dead now. Maybe we all are._


	3. Bobbing. Sliding. Rising.

_Light. Shadow. Movement. Pain. A knife cutting at my wrist. I should be able to see better with the lights on but the fog is too thick. Bobbing, as if on a boat. Sliding, as if it were pitching on the surf._

* * *

"Everybody up," Finch emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, toweling his head, coaxing hair still damp from the shower to stand on end again. "Checkout is at 10am, and we need to be back on the road."

Reese stretched and yawned, sitting up on the couch where he'd slept, while Shaw rolled over in her bed and threw a pillow over her head. "If you get up Shaw," he offered, "There's probably some hot water still left…"

"I'd rather have the sleep," came the muffled reply, and Reese, with a shrug, headed to take a shower. If she didn't want the hot water, he wasn't going to argue.

Finch limped across the room, dropping the towel he'd been rubbing his head with on the foot of his bed, as he made his way back to where their captive still sat, impassive. He picked up the small cup of water off the table and tried once more to maneuver the straw between Roots lips and coax her to drink, but just as the night before she turned her head and murmured a wordless protest at both water and french fries. In the end the only thing the only one who had a modicum of success was Reese, who'd somehow prised her mouth open and inserted ice. Thankfully her swallowing reflex was intact, so she'd kept her own airway clear as it melted. This was repeated a few times, but they'd only managed about 4 or 5 small cubes of hollow restaurant ice. Not nearly enough.

When Reese emerged from the bathroom in his pants and undershirt, he looked from Finch to Shaw's bed and back, shaking his head. She'd been ready to fight him in the parking lot for that bed the night before, but he simply acquiesced to the couch. It had been too long a day. Still, she was far shorter than he was, and would have had a better night on the couch than he had, so a little revenge was in order. With a wry smile he held a finger up to his lips to keep Finch quiet, and crept right up to the side of Shaw's bed.

"Lights! Lights! Lights!"* by the moment he'd finished shouting she was upright next to the foot of the bed and a moment after _that_ , she looked ready to murder him.

"Fuck you!" she pointed at Reese threateningly, grabbed her pants off the floor, and stormed off to the bathroom.

"Uncuff her from there," Reese nodded toward the handcuff key where it lay by the TV, as he pulled on his shirt and starting to button it. "Shaw'll be out pretty quick, and probably in a huge rush."

"She still won't drink, and I'm not entirely convinced she's slept," Finch replied, shuffling over to retrieve the key. "I think we can rule out malingering. She would have to be pretty committed to the rouse to not have sneaked some water or a few french fries in the night… the hair on the carton hasn't been disturbed, and the water level in the cup is the same. She has to be famished at this point."

Reese was fully dressed, but still combing his hair with the plastic comb he'd taken from the bathroom, when Shaw charged back out of the bathroom dressed, wet hair tied up in a rough looped ponytail, and started to put on her boots. "You got me up, you better be ready to hit the road," she muttered, pulling the laces taut.

"Yes of course," Finch replied, trying to coax Root onto her feet with little luck. Reese finished with the comb and went to help him. Lifting Root bodily from the chair and placing her on her feet. With a little pressure to her back, she took a few faltering steps forward before stumbling. She would have fallen if she hadn't been caught on both sides by Reese, and Finch, who winced taking the weight.

"See what happens when you won't drink?" Shaw glared at Root, before striding toward the door, picking up the keys on the way out. "Just get her to the car. It's my turn to drive."

* * *

_Poking at my face again. Why? There was a reason. I don't remember. The static is louder. Rumbling like thunder. The knife at my wrist is gone, gentle hands press on my arm and shoulder. Why? There was a reason. I don't remember._

_Rising up… like an alien abduction. Falling down... like an avalanche. Borne forward on the wings of an eagle. Wind. Sunlight. Shoved into an oven. Straps. Window pane. White light…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For those who don't get this, Army Reese is pranking the crap out of Marine Shaw here, taking advantage of residual operant conditioning from boot camp by imitating a Marine Drill Sergeant at wake up call.


	4. White Light

_ White light… White light… White light... _

* * *

"I think she finally fell asleep," Reese remarked, from the back of the car, raising his voice to be heard over the wind, as they sped down the highway, windows open except for Root's, as she seemed inclined to rest her head against it, and they didn't want her hanging out the window.

"Check her pulse," Shaw instructed from the wheel. "Make sure it's just sleep."

"Weak but fast," Reese replied, "That's to be expected though, isn't it? After what is it now, twenty six hours without food, and barely any water?"

"Twenty seven and a half. We'd been off the plane for around an hour and a half when you caught up to us," Finch corrected. "And it's quite warm. That can't be helping."

"Enough about the heat already," Shaw snapped, "We could have taken 90, but instead you wanted to go through New Mexico. You brought us here. To the Utah desert. In a car with no air conditioning. The heat is on you."

"Route 90 is a direct shot from Washington to New York City," Finch replied, defensively, "They'll be looking for us on Route 90. And before you say it, I didn't pick this car either. That was all her."

"And she's so out of it, she doesn't get to enjoy baking like the rest of us," Reese added, ruefully. "She hasn't even broken... a... sweat," he trailed off.

"Ok ok, we'll stop!" Finch protested, as Shaw floored the accelerator.

"Shut up and find us a motel," she barked in response. "With air conditioning."

"What?"

"Heat stroke," came the chorused reply.

* * *

_ White light… White light…White light… _

* * *

"Finch, run a cold bath, Reese, get her in there," Shaw darted through the room, jacking up the AC and snatching up the ice bucket. "I'll be right back."

Finch hurried, to do as he was told, as Reese dropped the unconscious Root on her back on the bed, and started pulling her shoes and pants off, struggling somewhat with the latter. "Why do women wear such tight pants?"

"Because they look good on us," Shaw returned with a bucket of ice, poured it into the tub, and promptly left for another. 

By the fourth bucket of ice, Reese had Root extricated from her pants, and propped up in the slowly filling tub, top and underwear still on. (Her leather jacket had been consigned to the trunk hours ago.)

"Your turn," Shaw shoved the infuriatingly small ice bucket into Finch's hands and knelt down next to the tub, checking Root's pulse at the neck, and the temperature of her forehead. "At least we get to enjoy the air conditioning too," she muttered to Reese. "Get a pen would you?"

He nodded and retrieved the complimentary pen and pad from the nightstand, placing it on the counter and looking expectantly at Shaw.

"Ok, we're gonna need scissors, a thermometer, three saline bags: normal or half, preferably with dextrose, but I'll take what we can get, IV administration set, some 18 gauge IV catheters, and medical tape. A sling wouldn't hurt either. He's going to need to go to a compounding pharmacy, or a hospital pharmacy. Retail pharmacies don't do IVs. A vet would also have that stuff, but if he can dummy up the prescription that's probably easier for him than breaking and entering."

"That's not his strong suit," Reese agreed.

"What's not my strong suit?" Finch asked, appearing at the doorway with the ice bucket. 

"Robbery," Reese replied, with a smirk as he took the ice bucket from his hands and poured it in the tub. "We have a shopping list for you."

"Where exactly am I supposed to get this?"

"You can create new identities on the fly, but you can't dummy up a digital prescription?"

"That's illegal… but… in this case… I'll be back soon."

"I'll get more ice," Reese stated, moving for the door.

"Enough ice. Sit." Shaw indicated the floor next to her. "I'm gonna keep her shoulder out of the water. You're going to do whatever it was you did before to get ice cubes in her mouth. What time did you put her in?"

"Just a minute or two ago."

"What  **time** ."

"Um… 1:43."

"Okay. So if we don't see signs of consciousness by one  **fifty** three, we're in trouble."

It was 1:49 when Root's body stiffened, and she let out a strangled cry halfway between a grunt and a whine. She nearly bit Reese's fingers as her jaw snapped shut, knees pulling to her chin, wrenching her hand from Shaw's grasp, where she'd been  _ trying  _ to help Root maintain circulation. With the sudden movement, the water sloshed out of the tub splashing both Reese and Shaw, and without Shaw's support she slid into the water, completely submerged except for her shins and feet. Then, just as quickly as she'd curled inward she kicked her legs out with considerable force propelling her head back out of the water, and flailed her limbs, coughing out water.

Shaw grabbed hold of her by both shoulders, and forcefully held her back against the tub, keeping her head and wound out of the water, and Reese tried to hold down her legs, to very little success, due in no small part to fear of injuring her which Shaw did not share. After a few more coughs however, Root's breathing returned to something approaching normal, and her muscles began to go slack, except her lower legs and feet, which continued to paddle slowly as if treading water in slow motion.

"Call Finch and tell him to add sterile gauze to the list," Shaw replied, dripping and frustrated, "We're going to need to replace the wet dressings… and another burger."

* * *

_ White light… White light… Yellow light... _

  
_ Ice water! Ice water! Ice water! Everything contracts. Everything explodes. Hands. Drowning but I can still breath. Freezing but still on fire. Faces float in white space. Swimming. Is this what it feels like to be dead? _

_Cold wind. Dim lights. Orange and yellow. Shaw. Pain. Shaw is always pain. The ants crawl into my arm, invading my body. Forsaken by God. This is my hell._

_Back in the oven. Straps. Shaw. Warm wind. Flying. Wind on my skin. Wind in my hair…_


	5. Itching. Burning. Heat.

  
_Momentum interrupted. Wind gone. Heat remains. Itching. Burning. Tiny insects below the surface of my arm. The ants are eating me from the inside out._

_Hands. Straps gone. Wrapping and tugging. Fabric. Straps return. The air burns my lungs. Shaw shoves needles into my fingers. Pain. Shaw is pain. If this is hell, she is my devil. That's ironically fitting._

_The wind resumes, carrying away the foul air. The ants have not gone._

* * *

 

"There's no one in front of you," Shaw raised her voice to be heard over the wind. This time all four windows were open, and Root was sitting upright. In retrospect leaning on the window was probably one of the earlier signs of her dehydration and impending overheating. "You could go a bit faster."

"I'm already doing 80 in a 65 Ms. Shaw. That's about as comfortable as I am with this sort of thing while Ms. Groves still has a needle in her arm," he indicated the second bag of fluids, almost drained, hanging from the car's coat hook. Shaw had insisted that Root could be safely transported after the first had run in, and threatened to leave them behind if they didn't come with her.

"It's a catheter Finch, the needle is back in the motel bathroom," she bit back. "And we lost enough time stopping at the freaking Wal*Mart, that you could put a little more throttle into it, ok?"

"As I recall you were the one who asked for nail polish remover."

"Because I can't gauge capillary refill through black nail polish, but I didn't ask you to waste time clothes shopping, and playing dress up in the parking lot."

"I just didn't think it was inappropriate to be driving around with a half dressed passenger, and since you completely destroyed the shirt she had been wearing, it only seemed prudent to replace it."

"I could take a turn at driving again," Reese suggested.

"I don't know how else you expected me to get it off her, it was too hot" Shaw ignored the interjection, "Black, long sleeves, synthetic blend."

"And the shirt I found is white, sleeveless and cotton, and it buttons down the front so we could get it on without aggravating her shoulder."

"You are weirdly protective of someone who tried to kill you less than 48 hours ago."

"Illness tends to evoke pity in those of us that _have_ feelings," Reese needled.

"You're the one who pointed out the full extent of her helplessness," Finch ignored the interjection.

"Yeah well at the next stop you had better start looking into options, because this is definitely not malingering or acute stress. In either case she should have at least accepted water before it got this far. Whatever the cause is…" she rapped her knuckles on Root's skull, garnering absolutely no reaction, "this is genuine catatonia. She's completely fuckin useless."

"That's a terrible way to describe any person."

"Seriously though, if we don't make Albuquerque by midnight, I'm out."

"Would you prefer is Mr. Reese drove?"

"I suggested that five minutes ago," Reese sighed.

"Next truck stop we make a pitstop and change drivers," Finch agreed, and Shaw huffed, "What now Ms. Shaw?"

"Nothing. I just realized I'm going to have to take her to the bathroom in a truckstop."

"Three hours ago she was completely dehydrated," there was a question in Reese's tone.

"That was before we ran two litres of saline and dextrose into her," Shaw replied, with a tone that suggested that Reese was less than intelligent.

"Why did I get three again?"

"It's like 30 hours from Albuquerque to New York. In another 20 we're going to want to top her off again, unless you can find some other way to feed her."

* * *

_Are you there God? A gauntlet, a dark tunnel, surrounded by figures. The damned? Stench. Hands. An unnoticed pressure makes itself known in release._

_Straps. Hands. Wind. When did the ants leave?_


	6. Static. Gun. Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied Suicidal Ideation

_Time passes quickly in the oven. Hot as Hell. Is this Hell? Tied up in the straps. Inertia. The ants are no longer in me but they are in the floor._

* * *

"I've been driving for hours, and it's going on four in the morning." Reese announced, parking the car. "It's your turn on the couch Shaw."

"Like hell it is," Shaw protested. "This isn't even my party. I'll walk. Catch a bus. Hitchhike. I don't need you people."

"If you two would cease your bickering," Finch implored, exiting the car, "I'll get us adjoining rooms. That way all four of us can lay down tonight. Ms. Shaw, I trust you can locate us some food. That does seem to be one of your stronger skills. Mr. Reese stay with Ms. Groves until I get back with the keys. You may need to move the car."

Once in the room, they ate in near silence. Shaw plowed through her cheap steak without cutting it apart. Root still refused any attempt to feed her, but Reese was starting to perfect his forcible ice cube insertion, so there was that. It was nearly sunrise by the time Reese and Finch disappeared through the connecting door to sleep.

Shaw was part way through taking off Root's shoes when she paused, and looked up at the taller woman, sitting impassive in the chair where they'd parked her.

"You've turned out to be a real disappointment you know," she tugged roughly at the second shoe, "When I first met you, in the hotel, you were so… alive. You didn't give a shit about anyone, or anything, except getting what you were after. I thought you were like me." She stood. Kicking the shoes to the side. "Now look at you." She poked Root roughly in the forehead, but her only response was a tensing against the pressure, resisting being moved. "You're broken. Pathetic."

"Then again look at me," she sat down on the bed, facing Root. "Playing nursemaid to a catatonic psyco I'd just as soon kill. One bullet. Pop, and all of this is done with and I'm in the wind." No reaction… minutes ticked by. Shaw pulled her gun out of the back of her waistband, and trained the barrel on the middle of Root's forehead, point blank.

A glimmer of recognition passed through her eyes, and they darted around a few times before coming to rest on the gun.

"You recognize this, don't you. Like you recognized that pay phone when we stopped to switch drivers," Shaw asked, remembering how Root had momentarily resisted walking when they passed a payphone on the way to the bathroom, eyes locked on the black plastic handset. "There's something of you left in there. Trapped. I should put you out of your misery."

In response, Root leaned forward, ever so slightly, forehead coming into contact with the muzzle of the gun, and stayed there.

Shaw stared, for a moment, dumbfounded, before dropping her arm. That was supposed to be a threat. She was burning off steam. But it looked like Root _wanted_ to be shot. In the head. Certain death. Suicidal behavior was unsettling to Shaw in the least. With her limited emotional repertoire, she couldn't understand how any _feeling_ could be so strong that it would make a person want to end their life. Did she hear what Shaw had said?

"Alright let's get you to bed," she stood, and put the gun on the dresser by the TV, and pulled down the blankets of the bed nearest the window, and the chair. She came around side of Root, and rather than try and coax her to stand on her own, pulled her up by her good arm, wrapping it around her own neck and half dragging her the few feet to the bed, where she sat her back down, lifted her feet from the floor and rotated her into position. She checked the headboard for someplace to cuff Root to, but gave up quickly. "Like you're going anywhere." Shaw tossed the sheet over the prone hacker, and shedding her own shoes and pants, climbed into the other bed, tucking her gun beneath her pillow.

* * *

_Time is plodding. Achingly slow. Aware but unmoving. Foggy. Another meal. The smell turns my stomach._

_Suddenly. Shaw looming before me. Her lips move but I can't hear her. The rushing water static is as strong as ever. Sudden focus. A gun. It's aimed at me. Shaw my executioner. If this is life I don't want it._

_But again I don't die. You can't die in hell._

_Hurled about like a sack of potatoes. On my back. Soft. Bed? It must be night. One day in hell. The lights go out… the ants return. Marching along every surface in the room. Why don't I sleep? You can't sleep in hell._


	7. Wind. Straps. Time.

_ Time is a funny thing. In the dark places it moves slow. In straps it moves faster. Out of control. I can't feel it passing, but it must. Blink and the figure beside me changes. Shaw. The big lug. Finch. Shaw, Finch… _

* * *

"So we're down to Ridge Stone or Presbyterian?" Shaw confirmed, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Presbyterian is going to have stronger security, and better resources," Reese stated. 

"But Presbyterian is also networked with the greater New York State Public Hospital System," Finch replied from the back seat.

"If she wakes up at Ridge Stone she could do serious damage there," Reese countered.

"That assumes she beguiles them into thinking she's harmless first," Shaw pointed out, "If Finch can make it clear that she has a history of violence, they might be convinced to use chemical restraint on her soon after she becomes lucid."

"But the risks of escape-"

"Need to be balanced against the risks of discovery," Finch interrupted. "We have no idea if she's going to recover from this or not, or when if she does."

"In a hospital, she has a good chance of it," Shaw advised, "there's drugs for this kind of thing. The when is more of a question than the if. Days, weeks, maybe a couple months… if it goes on past there it's chronic and we may as well put her out to pasture."

"The treatment is more comprehensive at Presbyterian," Reese argued.

"Are we aiming for comprehensive? Comprehensive means recovery and release. Mediocre is better if we want to use it as an ad-hoc prison. Indefinite stay."

"Preferably the latter," Finch replied.

"We're going to Ridge Stone," Shaw announced and put the car back in gear, pulling away from the curb. "Directions Finch, then make the call to set up admission. After that I need to brief you on what to say when you admit her."

"When we stopped over in St. Louis I put together an identity to admit her under, Robin Farrow. She's the niece of Harold Wren."

"Okay Uncle Harold, get chopping."

"I still think Presbyterian is the better option."

"You've been overruled Mr. Reese," Finch covered the phone momentarily while he spoke. "Yes hello? This is Harold Wren, I spoke to you yesterday about the possibility of admitting my niece Robin. Do you still have a bed available for her?"

* * *

_ Wind. Straps. Light. Dark. Pain. Shaw. Wind. Straps. Light. Dark... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say goodbye to Shaw and Reese folks... this was their last chapter... Finch gets one more.


	8. Hands. Hands. Hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance to anyone who's actually admitted to inpatient. I'm sure this is not fully accurate. I'm working off the perspective of someone who has been with people through intake, and visited them there many times, but never been a patient myself. I think I'm somewhere in the 'Movie Version of Girl: Interrupted' area of realism. I hope.

_Things repeat themselves. Wind. Straps. Light. Dark. Pain. Shaw. Wind. Straps. Light. Dark..._

_The air is cooler. A windowpane. Rain on the windowpane. Have I returned to the beginning? Things repeat themselves. Rain on my skin. Rain on my face._

_White marble stairs… ascending… ascending…_

* * *

"So, I understand you've brought in Ms. Farrow here because she's been nonresponsive for several days?"

"She doesn't move. She doesn't speak. She won't eat or drink, even if we hold it right up to her mouth. The only reason she hasn't wet herself yet is that her cousin Sameen, my other sister's daughter… not mine, has been taking her to the bathroom every 4 hours, except during the night."

"Is there a reason you didn't bring her in sooner?" the nurse glanced over to where Root sat, impassive, staring at the table.

"Well she'd had quite a shock. We were having a… disagreement, and the police were called. She raised a gun at me, and one of the officers took a shot at her, hence the shoulder wound. I declined to file a report. I don't want to add to her criminal record. When they treated her at the ER they said it was probably just an acute stress reaction and she'd come out of it… but she never did."

"She raised a gun at you? Does she have a history of mental disturbance? Any diagnosed mental illnesses?"

"If she's been diagnosed with anything it's news to me, but she probably should be. Much of the time she's quite normal, congenial even. But now and then she just goes off on a rip, gets some idea, and no one can get her to let it go. Not only does she seem to lose all sense of self preservation, but she's hurt people, badly, in attempts to make those ideas a reality. She's been convicted of shoplifting, reckless driving, _several_ counts of misdemeanor assault. That's part of why I chose Ridge Stone. If she regains lucidity, I wanted her to be somewhere that has experience in handling combative patients.."

"You say she loses her sense of self preservation. Has she ever actively tried to harm herself?"

"Not that I know of. It's mostly recklessness, and violence against others. Her mother was reckless too, but never violent. She died in 2003. Wrapped her car around a tree. We're… mostly sure that was recklessness. Beth… Robin's mother… she _did_ have a history of trying to harm herself, but not when she was on a tear like that." It had been decided that the closer the tale of Robin Farrow was to that of Root, the less likely the rouse would be discovered, and the more appropriate the diagnostic results.

"Your sister… was she ever diagnosed with anything?" the nurse probed.

"I don't know… she really didn't think her medical history was anyone's business, not even Robin's and the poor girl had to grow up with her like that." In truth he had been unable to gain access to that particular record, and as concerned Elizabeth Groves was running entirely off public record, conjecture, and things Mr. Reese had discovered in Texas.

"What about her father?"

"He's an unknown quantity. That was another one of Beth's more reckless behaviors. She wasn't exactly selective about who she went to bed with."

"Does Robin share that trait as well?"

"Quite the opposite. She's a consummate misanthrope. I've never seen her so much as look at a man in that way. I'm not sure she has _friends_ , nevermind lovers."

"Alright, so I need to check a family medical history here, for admissions. To the best of your knowledge, does Robin or anyone else in your family she's related to by blood have history of Thyroid Disease, Anemia, Liver Disease-"

"Her mother had that… but she drank considerably, and as near as I can tell Robin hasn't inherited that. She'll have a beer now and then, or a fruity drink at a restaurant, but she's always been well in control of her alcohol consumption."

"What about, Chronic Fatigue, Kidney Disease, Diabetes, Asthma, Stomach or intestinal problems, Cancer, Fibromyalgia, Heart Disease, Epilepsy or seizures, Chronic Pain-"

"That would be me, but it's inorganic. I have a spinal injury. You may have noticed the limp," Harold demured.

"High Cholesterol, High blood pressure, or Head trauma,"

"Me again… same accident. Robin was driving, but she didn't have a scratch on her."

"Do you know when her last menstrual period was?"

"No. No I do not. Although I think it's safe to say she's not having one now. Her cousin would have mentioned that."

"Has Robin ever been in outpatient psychiatric treatment?"

"Again, not that I know of… but she's an adult, so it's entirely possible she was without my knowledge. Or perhaps when she was in jail?"

"Inpatient Psychiatric Treatment?"

"I don't think so."

"Is she on any medications?"

"If she is she hasn't had them since this started. There was nothing in her medicine cabinet, but her mother used to hide her pills all over the place, so it's possible."

"What about illicit drugs?"

"She's not addicted to any of them… but I wouldn't put it past her to have tried pretty much anything at some point."

"Smoker?"

"No."

"Education?"

"She didn't finish high school, but… she's somewhat of an autodidact."

"Does she have a job?"

"Not presently. But I should mention in light of the lack of education, that when she is employed, it's as a high level computer programmer. She's managed to hold down a proper job for a few months here or there. Then she goes off on one of her tears and loses the job in the process."

"So she's not intellectually impaired by her lack of education."

"No. She's very smart. Dangerously smart. If I had to guess I'd say she dropped out because school wasn't challenging her at all, that and she was trying to take care of her mother."

"Any major life traumas? Besides the inherent neglect in being raised by an unstable single parent?"

"Her best friend was kidnapped and murdered when she was 12. Robin, not the friend… she was 14 I believe. There was a cover up. It… skewed her relationship to reality somewhat. She saw her friend get into the car, but no one wanted to believe that the owner could do something like that. I didn't believe it myself until they found the body last year."

"So she witnessed a crime, and spent over a decade being told she didn't? That must have been difficult for her."

"Yes. I believe it's no small part of her general disregard for humanity. And… I'm not entirely certain that it counts as a trauma, but our… disagreement. Her plan this time was to speak directly to God. When that goal didn't materialize, she was… incredibly distraught. I admit that was probably not the best time to try and convince her that God doesn't talk to us…"

"Which is when she raised the gun to you?"

"Yes. Poor judgement on my part. I was perhaps a bit bitter at being dragged along unwillingly on her little road trip."

"She took you by force?"

"No… it wasn't the first time that day that she'd pointed the gun at me."

"She took you at gunpoint," the nurse took note of Harold's nod in response, and noted it in her paperwork."Well we seem to have everything in order here. You have the certifications from the family physician and the doctor at the local jail... so we're going to admit your niece for the next 60 days. At the end of that time, if she's well again, we can release her back to your custody, or if we still feel she's in danger, petition the court for a further 60 days."

"Thank you."

"Would you like to accompany her through the rest of the intake process," the nurse stood, "Have a look around? Help her get settled in? Or would you prefer to depart now?"

"If you don't mind, I think I'll be on my way… I don't think she'll take notice of me either way…"

* * *

  
_Hands. Many more hands than before. Pushing. Pulling. Pain. Cold air on my skin. All of my skin. Bright white light. Figures. Strangers. Everything white. The smell of antiseptic. Acrid. Sharp stinging. Ants invading. Hands. Hands. Hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye Bye Finch!


	9. Water. Spoon. Cold.

_ Stillness. When did the hands stop? Time slips by unnoticed, like a thief. A meal. My stomach turns. The smell is horrible. _

_ Water at my lips… dry lips... thirsty... drink… sweet water… like mana in the desert. _

_ I'm not dead yet. _

* * *

"There you go Robin sweetie," the nursing aide practically purred. "Good job! Not too much at once," she drew the cup back, and smiled as her patient leaned forward, trying to follow it.

"You've got her drinking? That's great," the nurse remarked, passing through the meal room with her clipboard, observing the patients' varying successes at eating and drinking. "I was starting to worry the Ativan wasn't going to work on her. If they show improvement on the first dose, that's a good sign. She was refusing water and now she's accepting it. That's improvement… not as much as we'd like to see, but still."

"She's been responding to visual stimulus too, she's backing away from the toast before it touches her lips. Twenty minutes ago, she didn't move until it made contact. Now she's anticipating it… and she doesn't like it. It's like she doesn't recognize it's food."

"Try the applesauce," the nurse indicated it on the tray with a tilt of her head.

The aide, nodded, and picked up the cup, pulling off the foil. Sure enough, when the applesauce touched Root's lips they parted to admit the spoon, and then closed around it, she even began, slowly, to draw her head backward off the spoon, to access the applesauce, before the aide helped her by pulling it back out. Root swallowed the food, and the aide smiled.

"Alright Angie. How did you know?"

"It's cold and wet, just like the pedialyte. She knows what to do with cold and wet. We can work on solids later, or tomorrow. She's not ready for group yet, so don't worry about finishing before meal time ends, but see if you can get a whole cup or two into her, slowly. Her intake form says she hasn't eaten in days, but I'd like to avoid an NG if we can. She has a history of violence, and no one likes an NG."

"Violence? Really? She looks so meek."

"Some people just look like that when they're catatonic," Angie replied, "It's no reflection on how they are when they're lucid. Some people look downright mean when they're catatonic… but lucid, they're pliant as kittens. There's no connection really." She shrugged, and wandered out of the meal room, queuing the aides in the room to start moving the patients out. Leaving the two women alone at the table.

* * *

_ Waking. Did I sleep? I must have slept. A bed. A ceiling. A woman pushes at my shoulder, insistent. She pulls my legs… I'm on my stomach. A man holds my arm behind my back. The woman pulls at my pants. Stinging pain from behind. Ants invading. Deep in my skin. Burning. _

_ My other arm is tied up… no… it's still in a sling. My shoulder throbs. I was shot. Shaw shot me. Where is Shaw? Finch? Who is this woman? Who is this man? Sitting up now. Lips move… there's still too much static, but even that is hard to hear. Like the sound inside a jet in flight. A loud silence. _

_ A meal… the smell makes me nauseous. Water at my lips. Stolen and returned. Stolen and returned. Torture. A spoon. Cold and smooth. Sweet. Strawberries. Eat. A spoon, warm and stinking. No. Push it away. _


	10. Stand. Sit. Wait.

_ Things repeat themselves. Stand. Sit. Wait. Pain. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. Pain. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. Pain. Stand. Sit. Sleep. Pain. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. There is a pattern. There is some comfort in that. Things repeat themselves. _

* * *

"Okay, and that leaves Robin Farrow. This is day three, now. No spontaneous awakening, but steady improvement. She's drinking reliably, and accepting cold liquid foods…  applesauce, strawberry yogurt... vegetable purees?" the doctor made a face at the last, "But she's refusing anything warm and savory, and spitting out the ensure."

"The aides say something about meats is making her retch," one nurse suggested "Is it possible she's vegetarian?"

"The same thing happens with pasta or macaroni and cheese," Nurse Angie countered. "Anything hot that steams. I think something's not right with her perception of smells."

"Lets test that. Try her on cold chicken salad at dinner, and cold scrambled eggs at breakfast. If we can't get one of those into her, and she won't take the ensure, we're going to have to think about an NG, and that means sending her out to a medical facility."

"Can we get a different flavor of Ensure down here?" Angie was taking the lead, and it was clear she favored this patient somewhat, "It's possible she just hates the flavor. Patients can be very particular about which flavors of that stuff they will and will not drink."

"What have you got down there now?"

"Chocolate."

"I'll have supply send down some vanilla and some strawberry to see if you can get any better results. Now what about responsiveness? Milla?"

"Still no reply to auditory cues, but she's definitely taking in visual information, she's been following people and objects with her eyes, sometimes even her whole head." remarked the nurse who had not yet spoken, "We think she's regaining a sense of time as well. She's beginning to show agitation when there are deviations from the schedule, particularly when meals or bathroom trips are late. She's confused about a lot, but I think we can all agree she's coming out of this slowly but steadily. I know we've been focusing on basic self care capability, but think we should consider adding her to group this evening or tomorrow, see if structured social time helps bring her out any further."

"Speaking of agitation. Are we worried about any of that? Her intake form shows a history of violence. Multiple convictions for misdemeanor assault. Has she shown any signs of posing a danger to you or to other patients?" He addressed all three nurses.

"So far, not yet. Mostly she swats at things that are put near her face, and she fights like a tiger getting her IMs, but that's typical when we're involuntarily medicating," Angie tried to brush it off. "No one likes a needle in the ass."

"That's true Ang, but she does seem more angry than frightened about that. If looks could kill… I'd be dead the way she was staring me after the last time I administered," the first nurse countered.

"Come on Lisa," Angie replied, "If dirty looks were violence we'd have the whole ward in restraints."

"She didn't try to fight the wound specialist when he visited yesterday to change the dressings on her shoulder," said Milla, "Changing the packing in a gunshot wound is far more painful than an injection. It's the medication, not the pain. It's not as if we don't have patients try to refuse medication all the time."

"I think it's the significant difference in his bedside manner," Angie countered. "He ignored our warnings and declined having her restrained. He showed her each thing before he touched her with it. He treated her as if she was going to be compliant so she was. I want to see if she tolerates her medication any better given in the arm where she can see, without being held down. We should give her the option to be compliant instead of assuming she won't."

"I'm not going to be the first to try that,"  Milla responded.

"Yeah if you want to, that it's your funeral," warned Lisa.

* * *

  
_ Stand. Sit. Wait. Pain. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. Pain. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. Pain. Stand. Sit. Sleep.  _


	11. Change. Needles. Loud.

_ The pattern is broken. This is when they come and hurt me. They're not here. Late? Door open. They're here. Just one? A small cart. Like the doctor for my shoulder. No gauze. Blue paper. Alcohol swabs. She holds up a syringe. A shot? _

_ My sweater off my shoulder. Cold. A needle. Don't look. Pain. The same pain. Ants invading. No… liquid. Injection. It burns, but dissipates. It's just a shot. _

_ Stand. Sit. Eat… I wasn't done with that water. Sweet water. Why is it on the table again, and not at my lips? Spoon. No. Swat. Spoon gone. Grasp the water. Take the water. This is mine. Drink it all. Where is the spoon? Sweet and cold? Grasp the spoon. Where is the sweet? I am cheated. Throw the spoon. Hands. Hands. Hands. Stand. Sit. Wait. In place of the pain, she comes again. Another shot. No hands holding me down. My pants stay on. No pain in the back.  _

_ Stand. Sit. This is not where I usually wait…  _

* * *

"Say it." Angie probed.

"You were right and I was wrong. Okay?" Lisa acquiesced "But picking up the spoon doesn't count. She threw it. That's not progress. That's a problem."

"She had it upside down. It vexed her," Angie smiled, "We had the aide help her pick it up at lunch, and now she's feeding herself. Our Robin's not so bad. She just needs a little understanding and patience. Isn't that right sweetie?"

Root didn't reply, shuffling slowly in the direction she was being led. They turned a corner and entered a room she hadn't been in before. Chairs positioned in a circle. Between meals and meds, they had been sitting her by the window in the day room, at first just for parking really, but later with aides taking turns trying to talk to her. It wasn't working out particularly well, and they had other work for the aides, so today, group. Other patients filed in. Some on there own, others lead as Root had been. No one moving all that quickly, except the group leader, a spritely young woman, in bright pink scrubs.

"Good afternoon!" she announced, once all were seated. The responding greeting was quiet and almost unintelligible. "You can do better than that! Good afternoon!"

"Good afternoon," most of the patients replied, some looking more put out than others. Angie meandered back out of the room, heading off for further work, while Lisa and a nurse's aide made themselves comfortable by the door, clipboards in hand.

"We have a new friend joining us today. This is Robin. You may have seen her at meals or in the day room earlier this week."

"We saw her alright. She threw a fuckin spoon. Tard."

"Ok Mark, that's not appropriate. Everyone here has had difficulties with movement, and sometimes it takes a little while for coordination to be reestablished."

"At least that means she held the spoon," a small figure murmured quietly from deep inside her hooded sweatshirt. "Yesterday they had to do it for her."

"Emma's right. She's doing better than Murray," a girl in dark eyeshadow added, jerking a thumb at her neighbor. A balding man with a slack jaw.

"Exactly Sarah. Progress, however slow, is progress. Now, let's all say 'Hi' to our new friend. Robin doesn't seem to hear much, so let's wave." The group leader waved enthusiastically, and many, though not all of the other patients did too, with varying degrees of success. Murray did nothing at all. "I want us all to try and make a special effort to include Robin when we're talking. She isn't talking to us, but we can talk to her. Okay?"

* * *

_ It's different here. There are people. There is movement. It is not peaceful.  People shout. Cutting through the static. Knives in my ears. I want to wait in the waiting place. Stand. Walk. Hands. Hands. Hands. Sit. Sit. Sit. I cannot return to the old pattern. It's not allowed. I almost miss the ants. Time moved faster then. Here it moves slower. Maybe it's the shots? They want me awake. I want to go back to being dead. It was easier than this. _


	12. Vile. Loud. Green.

_ Stand. Sit. Shot. Eat. Stand. Sit. Sleep. Shot. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. Shot. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit… the new place again. Knives. I want to wait in the waiting place. I can't leave this place. Make the noise stop. Stand. _

* * *

"You see that?" Mark barked. "She's up again. Even fucking Robin doesn't want to be here. Have you ever seen her go anywhere on her own? No. Because she doesn't. She only walks if you push her. But this group is such a fucking circus, that she gets up off her ass and tries to leave,  _ every day _ ."

"Dude this is only the second day she's been here," Sarah corrected. She and Mark were certainly the most vocal in group. "And the only one making it a circus is you," Sarah countered, as the group lead nodded to the nurses by the door to come and seat Root. Before they had the chance however, she had reached the other side of the circle, and stopped. 

The room froze for a moment, realizing she was trying to interact with another person of her own volition, and then her hand darted out, grabbing Mark by the collar. She jerked him forward, and as he stepped to counterbalance, she kicked the leg out from under him, Barely any movement on her part, but Mark hit the ground, hard.

"Go Robin," Sarah actually cracked a smile, but it was quickly wiped off her face, as the staff barged into the circle, one going to Mark and the other to Root, standing over him, immobile again.

"No. Not go Robin," the leader, corrected. "That-is-not-acceptable-behavior-in-this-group Robin. Alright, we're moving rooms. We'll complete this session in the art room. Everyone out." The group filed out quickly and quietly. It wasn't the first time they'd been relocated because someone was having a meltdown, but it was the first time that meltdown had been so quiet. 

"Did you see what she just fucking did?" Mark rediscovered his voice, after having the wind knocked out of him. "What the fuck Robin! What the fuck." He stood to face her and her gaze followed his face, traces of anger still pulling at the corners of her eyes.

"Mark, come with the group, quietly, or you're going to seclusion too," the group lead stated firmly, from the door. "You were  _ this  _ close to going anyway." Mark and the nurse's aide who had been attending to him followed the group leader out the door, and crossed paths with Angie, entering with several male aides in her wake.

"Robin?" Angie was clearly confused. "What happened here? Was she provoked? What did Mark do to her?"

"You can't keep making excuses for her," Lisa replied. "She initiated this and she has a history of assault. This is serious."

"She pushed someone."

"You weren't here. That wasn't a push: that was a sweep. She wanted him on the ground and she put him there."

"I could hear him all the way down in the nurses station. She was probably scared."

"Does she look scared to you? No. She looks like murder," Lisa indicated Root who while stock still once more, was still glaring daggers at the doorway.

"If dirty looks were vi-"

"This isn't just dirty looks Angie."

"She's compliant. She doesn't even fight her meds. This could be an isolated incident."

"Isolated or not, she's going to seclusion overnight. If she stays like this, she can come out in the morning, but we're not risking further outbursts like this today." She motioned to the aides to take her away, and after initial resistance Root went with them, none too happily.

* * *

_ It's quiet again. I can make it stop. I did make it stop. 'It' is a man. Ugly. Vile. Loud. Walk. This is the wrong way. The waiting place is not this way. Forrest green room. Pushed over. They're hurting me again. Tugging at my pants. Pain from behind. They're gone. This is not the waiting place. Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Sleep. _


	13. White. Marker. #ROOT.

_ The cart is outside the door. The woman is inside. Shot. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Wait. Shot. The pattern resumes. Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Endure. Shot. Stand. Next is sit. In the eating place. They don't come for me, but I know the pattern. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Walk. Sleep. Shot. Walk. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Endure. Walk. Shot. Walk. Sit. Eat... _

* * *

"I don't know Doctor Miller, no matter what Angie says, it always seems to be one step forward two steps back with Robin."

"How so?" he inquired.

"She starts to move on her own, and it's only to swat at things she doesn't like. She starts eating on her own, she throws the silverware whenever she can't get the food in her mouth. She finally reacts to a sound, and it's a violent response. She starts walking on her own, and now she wanders the hallways in her downtime, which makes line of sight a pain in the ass."

"That doesn't count," Angie protested, "There's nothing inherently negative about wandering the hallways. That's like complaining that your kid starts crawling because now you have to watch them more."

"She's not a kid she's a patient, and she's plateaued."

"I don't know how you can say that. She's regaining new skills every day."

"So she's learning new tricks. Working out the pattern of the space she's occupying. Cognitively, she's not making any progress. As far as she can tell she's the only person on the planet. Everyone and everything else is just a part of the environment. She's not receptive to any kind of communication. So yeah, she learns stuff, but only because we have her doing it every day. It's all a series of patterns to her. We don't exist."

"Just because it's patterns doesn't mean she's not thinking. She's… building a program."

"What?"

"She's a computer programmer," Angie reminded the room, "Half of her life is patterns. A series of 'if this, then that' rules, nested loops, true false questions. She's not the only person on the planet, she's just on an  _ alien  _ planet, and she's putting together the parameters of that world. We're here every day, it's easy to forget how different it is to outpatient life. She's not a voluntary admit. She was completely out of it when she got here. As far as Robin knows, she just woke up here, in captivity, with no explanation. I'm not even sure she realized she was in a hospital until the wound specialist came. She acts out when she's frustrated with the physical limitations of her condition or when she feels threatened, just like any other patient."

"Not just like any other patient. If she was a six foot man with a record of assault you wouldn't tolerate this behavior. You'd see it for the threat that it is, a violent patient with no sense of consequences."  

"She understands consequences, she just doesn't know what they are until after she's made the mistake. It's never the same problem twice. She knows 'if I push the food away then I don't have to eat it.' She knows 'if I throw the spoon then they take my food.' Presumably now she knows 'if I hit people then I go to seclusion.' If this, then that. She just has to experience a consequence to learn what it is because we can't tell her."

"She shouldn't need to be told not to knock Mark on his ass."

"Is there anyone in this room who hasn't  _ wanted  _ to knock Mark on his ass?" A mirthful chuckle went up from the room. 

"I'm just saying it means she's shown no sign of regaining cognitive foresight," Lisa argued. "She should have been able to anticipate that violence is an unacceptable behavior. She's plateaued."

"Wrong. Wandering the halls, she never bumps into anyone. She's anticipating their movements and walking around where they're  _ going  _ to be. That's foresight."

"You realize that if she  _ does  _ have foresight, then that means that she  _ doesn't  _ consider violence unacceptable behavior, right? That if she's actually playing with a full deck, she thinks violence is as natural a response to shouting, as moving around people in a hallway. That should scare you."

"Alright alright... " Dr. Miller held up a hand. "We're at seven days now, and… besides the one... outburst, she doesn't seem to be interacting much with afternoon group. I want to add art therapy in the morning. That'll keep her out of the hallways for a few hours, and since she's not using words maybe she can make inroads toward meaningful communication in a visual medium."

* * *

_ Walk. Walk. Sit. Sleep. Shot. Walk. Hands. A new room. A change in the pattern. Sit. White expanse. Object in my hand. I know that smell. Marker. White expanse. A hand guides mine. A mark on the white. Pull my hand away. Take the marker too. Mine now. _

__#ROOT  
#ROOT  
#ROOT  
#ROOT  
#ROOT

_ A hand at my shoulder. A shot. It's time to walk to the eating place. Walk. Eat. Walk. Sit. Endure. Shot. Walk. Walk. Sit. Sleep.  _


	14. God is Calling

_ The pattern changes again. The cart has new things on it. Still the wipes. The syringe. The vial… she picks up the new object. Orange. Orange and white. I recognize this shape. Orange. Round. White. Medicine. Prescription Vial. She shows me the needle, but she puts it down. She holds out a pill and a cup of water. I don't want pills. Push them away. Water spills. Shot. _

_ Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. #ROOT. I like the green marker. _

_ Again the needle is presented. The pill is offered. I don't want pills. I don't want another shot. Insistent hands poke at my lips. I want to bite them. Open mouth. Bitter taste. I take the offered water. No shot.  _

_ Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Endure. _

_ Pill. Withdraw. Swat. Needle. Withdraw. Do not swat. It's sharp. Pill. Withdraw. Swat. Needle. Withdraw. Do not swat. Pill. This is a loop. This is a choice. Accept one or the other. Put the pill in my mouth. No shot. Water instead. _

_ Stand. Sit. Eat. Stand. Sit. Sleep. Pill. Walk. #ROOT. Pill. Walk. Eat. Walk. Sit. Endure. _

* * *

"I don't know what to make of this, do you know what to make of this?" Doctor Miller flipped through the pages. All filled down the left hand side, with the word "#ROOT." The first few pages in purple, and the rest in green.

"Trees?"

"Plants…"

"Twitter?"

"God," Angie stated. Simply.

"What?" 

"I Googled it," she held up her phone reading from it. "Root is the name of the user who has administrative privileges on a Unix or Linux server. While most users can only access data within their own directory, the root user can access any folder on the hard drive. This allows the root user to install system software updates, modify the access privileges of other users, and perform other administrative tasks," she looked up from the phone. "If the computer is the world, #Root is the God."

"Didn't it say in her intake form that the precipitating event to all of this was a failed attempt to speak to God?" Doctor Miller picked up a folder, abandoning the pages on the table.

"Exactly," Angie confirmed, "I think she's trying to write to us."

"Not exactly," the art therapist sighed, "Check the last page." Dr. Miller picked up the stack and pulled the last page out from underneath. It was a series of simple questions written in capital letters. 'HOW DO YOU FEEL?' 'WHAT DAY OF THE WEEK IS IT?' 'WHAT DO YOU NEED?' But just like all the other pages, the only marks on the page were '#ROOT' over and over, down the side in green marker. "I thought the same thing, so I tried that. She's putting a word on paper but… I don't think she's writing. She's drawing. She shows no sign of being able to read."

"So what… it's religious iconography… of her… computer God?"

"Something like that."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah I don't know how Angie did it," Lisa sighed, "and now I owe her a case of Pepsi, but she's got Robin taking her meds orally now. I mean, if we can get her to wait in line with the others, that would be ideal, but even chasing her down with a pill and water, is easier than chasing her down with a needle and swabs, and all that."

"She's drawing and she's swallowing pills," Dr. Miller smiled. "I think we're on the right track with art therapy. We might have better luck with pictographs than words. How are we on food?"

"She'll eat pretty much anything light now, no matter what the temperature is. She's still refusing some foods but they're few and far between. It could just be pref-"

The door to the Doctor's office burst open suddenly.

"Do you mind? We're having a meeting here." The doctor scolded the aide in the doorway.

"Yeah well I thought you might want to see this."

"What?"

"Robin's talking."

* * *

_ Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Walk. A sound cuts through the static. A payphone rings.  _

_ God is calling.  _

_ Walk. Walk to the phone. If this isn't God… the world will end again. Hold your breath. _

"Can. You. Hear. Me?"  _ Exhale. Smile. I am not alone.  _

"Absolutely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could end here if you want... headcanon things from here as you wish... but I'm going to take this story a little further still. :)


	15. Talking. Silence. Weeping.

The assembled moved, quickly but orderly, from the office, to the nurse's station, peering around the partition to where Root stood smiling, phone receiver clutched close to her ear, swaying in place as if speaking to a lover, speaking every now and then, but to quietly to be overheard. The nurse on duty gestured the Doctor over to her behind the counter and passed him the phone she had at her ear, the console indicating that it was muted and set to listen in on the patient phone Root was standing at.

"It's dismal," Root's voice carried over the line. "Are you going to get me out of here?"

Silence. The doctor was puzzled for a moment, thinking the phone had cut out…

"Why not?"

There was no one on the line. Just dead air. Someone must have called the phone at some point, or answered her call, because the dial tone wasn't present. Just silence. But clearly 'Robin' heard someone.

"I don't need a hospital. I'm fine… well, aside from the gunshot wound. But I've had worse.

"I'm not sure… I woke up here a few days ago. I must have been in shock.

"Then  _ you  _ tell  _ me  _ how many days it's been.

"Really? Maybe I  _ do  _ need a hospital… but just until I can get my head together.

"You can't be serious," she scoffed, airily.

He took the phone down from his ear. "I'm torn at the moment," he sighed. "If we interrupt her she may just, shut down again, but if we don't take this opportunity we may be waiting quite some time for another verbal event."

The assembled, exchanged glances. No one wanted to be the one to voice an opinion one way or the other. No one wanted to risk being wrong. There was an uncomfortable silence. 

"Okay, you two out in the hallway just in case," he motioned to Angie and an aide. "Everyone else give me some space." He took a breath, held the phone back up to his ear, and unmuted the headset. "Robin? Can you hear me?"

"I don't know who you are," Root's voice soured, "but you need to get off this line. It's in use."

"Robin this is Dr. Miller, and I just wanted to talk to you for a moment."

"You have the wrong number." 

"Robin-"

"There's no  _ Robin  _ at this number."

"I'm looking at you from the nurse's station Robin. I can see it's you," he peered through the reception window, giving a small wave. Root pursed her lips and furrowed her brow.

"Robin," she huffed, "Of course. Harold…"

"Your Uncle?"

"My Uncle Harold," she sounded chagrined. "He knows I don't answer to my given name. But he won't stop using it. No." She sighed deeply, "Regardless, Doctor Miller, I am trying to have a personal conversation here. I'd be glad to discuss this with you later, when I'm not  _ on the phone _ ."

"I don't hear anyone else on this line Robin."

"Yes well my conversational partner is a little shy, and I very much doubt they're going to talk again until you hang up… and neither will I."

"I'm just concerned Robin because this is the first time we've heard you speak in nearly two weeks."

She rolled her eyes so hard it could be seen from the nurses station. 

"Robin?"

She stared directly at him and in a show of some serious chutzpah, gestured as if she were zippering her mouth shut, and throwing away a key. Defeated, the doctor sighed and hung up the phone, receiving in return a smirk of triumph before Root turned her back again, focused on the payphone. 

"Now where were we?

"Hello?

"HELLO?!"

Dr. Miller, moved swiftly out of the nurses station, over to where Root was pleading into the phone. 

"Where are you? Talk to me!!!"

"Robin…"

"YOU," she turned back at the familiar voice. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"

She drew back her arm, winding up to hit the doctor squarely in the face with the phone handset, but her hand was caught over her head by the previously positioned nurse's aide, and her one usable arm twisted behind her back.

"IT WAS TALKING TO ME AND YOU RUINED IT."

"I'm so sorry Robin," and he almost seemed like he was. "Take her to seclusion until she calms down."

* * *

_ Forest green. Pain in the back. In the green room no one can hear your scream yourself hoarse.  A sound like water rushing blots out even my own shouts. Falling. Curling inward. Weeping.  _ _ The end of the world _ _. _

_ _


	16. God. Time. Sarah.

_Waking. Did I sleep? Pressing bitter stones to my mouth. No. Pain in the back. They move me. I go where they move me. They poke at my mouth. Press objects to my hands. I will not take them. The ants march along my spine. Time is a funny thing._

* * *

"She stopped Eating. Drinking. Drawing. Everything. I'm pretty sure ya'll literally broke Robin," Sarah observed, bitterly, rapping her knuckles on Root's head.

"Don't knock on Robin Sarah," the nurses' aide looked up from trying to maneuver a spoon of ice cream into Root's mouth, with little success.

"You know that phone rang again the last two days."

"You're not suggesting that God is actually calling Robin."

"I'm not suggesting anything except maybe we take her down the hall in a few minutes and see if she wants to talk again when it rings."

"She's backslid so far I'm not sure she'd even be aware it was ringing Sarah."

"What could it hurt?"

"Nothing," the aide huffed, "I just don't want you to get your hopes up. Give me a hand."

The two got Root to her feet, and guided her down the hallway. At least she was still walking where she was guided. They were still a few yards away when the phone began to ring, and to Sarah's delight, and the aide's surprise. Root's eyes lit up in recognition, and she lurched forward out of their grip, dodged around three other patients in the hall and crossed the distance to the phone in the time between two sets of rings, sweater fluttering behind her.

"Hello?" Root was a little breathless from her short run, but the anxiety melted from her slim frame as she leaned into the wall, head back, closing her eyes, relieved "Oh, I was afraid you were gone for good."

Sarah and the aide closed the distance slowly, and carefully, as if they were sneaking up on a deer, as several of the others in the hall turned to see what was going on. Not all of them knew Root well enough to know that she shouldn't be talking, but all of them knew that inbound calls were almost unheard of on the payphones.

"You're omniscient. You know where I've been," Root scolded. "Do I know where I was?" she sounded offended, "Of course I do. I was in a rubber room!" her voice began to raise in volume, "because SOMEBODY decided to interrupt our conversation!!!!" It was clear she meant for that part to be overheard. A chastisement.

"Sarah," the aide said, a little freaked out at what had just transpired, "I need you to go get a nurse-nurse. Can you do that for me?"

"Why? Isn't this good? I mean it's a little rude but…"

"Sarah we didn't exactly have permission to do this," she kept her eyes locked on Root. "And there's no one on the line. They listened last time. That means no one to hang up… so if this goes on too long, they are going to notice what we did… better to tell them upfront."

"Fine. But I'm blaming you."

Within ten minutes, there were three nurses and four strapping young male aides standing in the hallway, strategically surrounding Root from a distance, and a gaggle of rubberneckers, including patients, the music therapist, and several more aides watching from further down the hall. The spectacle of the mute girl talking to a dead phone was a welcome diversion from the doldrums… and some of the patients were secretly hoping for another dramatic meltdown.

"Well who's stupid rule is that?" Root inquired, a little irritated. "I hardly think you're beholden to that.

"But we have so much left to talk about…

"Well that's cold comfort, it's a whole day away.

"Alright alright, when in Rome…" she acquiesced. "Same time tomorrow though, right? Alright. Talk to you then!" She hung up the receiver of the phone and turned around, suddenly aware of her audience. "What's everyone staring at? Never seen a person use a phone before?" She shook her head at the assembled, and walked purposefully off down the hallway toward the day room.

The gawkers tried to follow after her, but the nurses shooed most of them away now that Root was aware of them. Angie and a single nurses aide followed from a distance, observing.

"Sarah no, go around the other way," Lisa whispered harshly, trying to redirect her, but the patient didn't listen, dodging around her and Angie, and catching up alongside Root.

"Hi," she stood in front of Root, backpedaling down the hall. "Do you know me?"

"I've seen you around," she replied, without stopping. "You have a name?"

"Sarah, and you're Robin, right?"

"Am I now?" Root asked, deviously. "And how do you know that? I certainly haven't claimed that."

"Yeah, but they introduced you to us a while ago. Robin Farrow. You're some kind of computer programmer, right?"

"Something like that," Root replied. "Robin." she turned the word over in her mouth. "Robin. Ick."

"What's the matter?"

"I have too many names," she replied, wistfully, sitting down on the couch cross legged, elbows propped on her knees.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh… nothing really… it's… not important…" she sighed, resting her head in her hands.

"Like, do you have some other name?" Sarah sat down beside her.

"I have too many names."

"You said that already."

"And there are too many minutes in a day…"

"What?"

"It's not fair that I only get to enjoy fifteen of them…"

"Dude, you are making no sense at all…" Sarah scoffed. When she didn't get a reply, she peered around to look at Root's face, blank again. "Robin?"

"I told you to go around," Lisa said, coming up behind the couch.

"This is sooo not my fault. I'm the one who thought to put her by the phone when it rings, and I did not turn her back into a zombie. She just kind of… petered back out."

"What did she say?" Angie came up and sat next to Sarah, gesturing at Lisa to leave. "I've always wanted to know what's going on in there."

"She asked me my name," Sarah shrugged, "I asked her if it was true she's a computer programmer. She said it's something like that… but then she got weird."

"How so?"

"She said her name a few times, but… not like it was her name? Like… you ever say a word to many times and it stops meaning anything? She sounded like that. She said she had too many names, and that there are too many minutes in a day," Sarah looked down at her feet, "And the last thing… it was weird. She said it isn't fair she only gets to enjoy fifteen of those minutes each day."

"It probably didn't mean anything… she was fading out by then."

"That's not it. It's the phone. We're have to keep our calls under fifteen minutes. It's like… it's like she knew she was fading out again, and that she won't come back till it rings again tomorrow."

* * *

_ It says we're only allowed to talk for fifteen minutes. It says it will call again every day, but I have to keep trying to get by here. I have to keep at it. I have a new pattern now. It could be better but it works. _

_ Pill. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Draw. Pill. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Endure. Pill. Walk. God. Walk. Sit. Sleep. _

_ I know some of these people now. Sarah wears black and hides in her hair. She's smart enough to know what a dunghole this place is. The one in the hoodie is called Emma. She's smart enough to be scared. Sarah says the jackass is named Mark. Fuck him. The smart nurse is called Angie. Angie says the stupid nurse is called Lisa. The Eastern European Nurse is called Milla. The night nurse is called Jasmine. Dr. Miller wants to talk to me too, but I'm angry at him. _

_ Pill. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Draw. Pill. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Endure. Pill. Walk. God. Walk. Sit. Sleep. _

_ I listen to it every day. I think it might be a woman. Does God have a gender? She talks to me in women's voices more each time. I know she's watching me. Her eyes are everywhere. In every corner. I am safe here. It's not ideal, but this is where she wants me. This is how she can look after me. After all, I still have a hole in my shoulder. _  



	17. Emma. Mark. Fight.

_ Pill. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Draw. Pill. Walk. Sit. Eat. Walk. Sit. Endure. Pill. Walk...  _

* * *

"Now, on to some good news," Dr. Miller smiled, "Although she still staunchly refuses to speak to me, I'm fairly certain Robin's periods of lucidity after using the phone are growing longer, and we've had good reports from her group leader. She's still not talking in group, but she appears to be fully engaged, at least at a visual level. She looks toward movement. Watches others for their reactions. Expresses herself with facial expressions… many of which seem to be condescending, but that's open to interpretation. The important thing is that she's reacting less and less like she's absent, and more and more like she's merely deaf and illiterate. She's understanding and responding with basic pantomime, and she could even be said to be forming a friendship with… Sarah, right?"

"Yes," the group leader confirmed, "It's hard to describe, but… she seems to prefer sitting next to Sarah, and when things are getting rowdy in group, I swear they're sharing knowing glances, if you know what I mean? Like they're commiserating over the chaos with just their eyes. She also gravitates some towards Emma, particularly when she's in distress. The other day, they happened to be sitting next to one another, and when Emma started crying, Robin reached out to her, put her hand on Emma's shoulder, like she was trying to comfort her."

"In other news she's out of the sling. She's still favoring that arm, but she is using it minimally, which is what we want to see at this point. We've been continuing to spot monitor the calls, but nothing has really changed except the content of her replies. Some of it's getting too jargony for us to follow."

"We got this from the art therapist," he held up another stack of papers, "We've moved on from writing #ROOT over and over to… unlabeled flow charts… drawings of payphones… not ours, these are all black… and a collage of birds, covered in black marker." He held up each in turn. "I think we all know why she's drawing payphones," He continued, "I talked to Mr. Wren and he confirmed that the precipitating trauma involved an attempt to contact God on a public payphone. The flow charts are perhaps an attempt to map a decision making processes?"

"Programmers use them to map out software before they write it," Angie spoke up, "And the birds, I think she's trying to express her frustration with her name. The few times she's talked to me, in her lucid periods. She really seems to hate it… but the voice in the phone says she's not allowed to tell us her  _ true _ name."

"Her real name is Robin Farrow."

"I know… it's just… I think that's what the birds are about. Robins are a kind of bird."

"So are Wrens." Lisa added. 

"For what it's worth," the group leader piped up again. "These aren't robins or wrens. They're finches."

"She's a computer programmer, not an ornithologist."

The door creaked open.

"We're in a meeting."

"I know I just… could we borrow Angie? It's Robin."

"It's always Robin," Lisa snapped. 

"We just… need some help sorting something out."

Angie excused herself, and followed the aide down the hall to the art room. There wasn't a class in session, but sometimes the patients went there to use the markers in their off time. As she entered, she surveyed the scene…. A floor to ceiling cabinet door was crooked on it's hinges, Mark was face down on the floor under manual restraint. Root was sitting, blood from the nose, and the lip, holding her shoulder, and looking like hell, and clearly agitated.

"Please tell me she didn't instigate this," Angie rushed in. 

"Hard to tell, we're still trying to calm Emma down," said an aide standing by the cabinet door, "She's the only witness, but she's dissociated at the moment."

"Emma?" she stepped around the aide, and peered into the cabinet, where Emma was curled in a tight ball, not moving or speaking. "What happened to her?"

"We're still trying to figure out if she went in there to escape Mark and Robin was protecting her, or if Robin put her in there and Mark was trying to rescue her," explained the aide sitting next to Root, wiping the blood off her face.  "All we know is when we came in, Robin was holding the door closed, and Mark was kicking the snot out of her."

"It's seven o'clock, what was Robin even doing in here… she's usually on the phone this time of night."

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Has anyone seen Robin?" Sarah appeared at the door, "She missed her pho-oh shit."

"Not now Sarah," Angie and two of the aides said in unison, and the girl slunk away from the door. She knew a situation when she saw one… and that getting involved risked a trip to seclusion.

"Can we get Mark and Robin out of here?" the aide by the cabinet said, "I don't think we're going to get Emma out while they're still here, or one of them. No telling which."

"Mark." came a small voice from inside the cabinet. "Make him leave." The staff exchanged glances, and nods, and moved to remove Mark. 

"I'd say that's your answer," Angie announced, hoping it meant what she thought it did.

A minutes passed in awkward silence after Mark was removed, before Emma peered out of the cabinet furtively. She glanced around the room quickly, and then slowly, sloooowly moved to exit the cabinet, and approach Root. 

"She was trying to protect me." Emma said, "She did protect me."

Root looked up when she saw Emma's feet, and started pushing away the aides hands away. 

"What, what are you trying to do Robin?"

Not getting the result she was after, Root stood, took Emma by the shoulders, and spun, sitting Emma where she had just been, and pushing the aide's hands back to where they had been, only now on Emma.

"You want me to take care of Emma first?" the aide asked, rhetorically. He put down the cloth he had been using and picked up a fresh one, dabbing at the small cut on Emma's lip, the only scratch on her. "She's going to be ok, aren't you Emma?"

"I'll be okay," Emma said quietly, looking up at Root, with some degree of wonderment. "Thank you. I'm sorry you missed your phone call." She made a phone with her hand, and then pointed to the clock. Root followed her gesture to the clock. 7:23 pm. She sighed deeply, and shrugged her shoulders. 


	18. Protecting. Talking. Awake.

_ Screaming, running, chasing. Emma is scared. Jackass in pursuit. I was going somewhere, but that's not important right now. Jackass needs to bleed. Follow. Follow. They went this way but I don't see them. Scream. Crash. Art room.  _

_ Jackass pulls at a cabinet door. Emma pulls back. She's inside. Seeking shelter. Shelter from Mark the Jackass. Protect Emma first. Make Mark bleed later. Fast feet dodge thru a maze of tables. Tuck head low, and enter ramming speed. Mark is on the floor. The cabinet shuts roughly.  _

_ He stands, comes for the cabinet again. Hold the handles. Keep the door shut. Kick him away. Again. Again. Blows raining. I've had worse. Hold the handles. Keep the door shut. One of them starts shifting off it's hinges. Still hitting me. I've had worse. Suddenly Mark is down again… aides on top of him. One sits me down, checking me over. Forget me. Emma. Point to the cabinet. Do you see what I know? _

_ They discover Emma. They look at me with apprehension. I don't know why. I don't know why they don't get Emma out. Make her safe. Why is Mark still here? Why is this aide poking me in my wounds? Angie is here. She looks worried. Everyone is tense. Why? It's over now.  _

_ They take Mark away… the tension decreases considerably. Perhaps they were afraid he would break lose. He didn't. He's gone. Put him in the forest green room. No one can hear you scream in the green room. _

_ Emma. Emma is bleeding. Emma is small and fragile. To gentle to survive. Emma needs to be here, where it's safe. Mark needs to go away. He makes it unsafe. Take care of Emma. She needs it more than I do. I've had worse. _

_ She sits in the chair. They tend to her lip. This is good. I'm satisfied. Don't touch me. I don't need you. Emma needs you. Emma says phone, and points. It's 7:23 pm. God has come and gone. She must have called while I was holding the cabinet shut. Emma looks sad. She knows how important God is. She understands. But God calls every day. Fifteen minutes isn't so much to lose to protect a little girl. 19… but to me, a little girl. More people should protect the little girls of the world. _

* * *

 

"It's alright," Root tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out lopsided. "There's always tomorrow."

All heads in the room turned. 

"What? It's not like she doesn't call every single day. I can miss one call without the world ending."

"Robin… you're… talking… you missed the call and you're talking."

"This is new?"

"Yes," everyone replied in unison.

"You people are all crazy," she replied, pointing around the room, before drawing her finger back to wipe at the blood still dripping from her nose. "Oh… nosebleed. You'll excuse me… I have to take care of this."


	19. Epilogue

"So when are you being transferred?" Sarah asked, sitting next to Root on the couch, painting her fingernails black.

"Tomorrow after breakfast. I'm going up to the M-Unit. I'd like to say it's because I've made so very much progress… but I'm pretty sure it's because I told Mark I'd shiv him with a pen if he ever tried to hurt Emma again."

"They don't really think you'd do it though," Sarah scoffed, finishing off Root's left hand.

"They're probably not sure," Root smiled, "But I don't begrudge them their caution. He's not exactly able to raise the alarm on his bad days, and he wouldn't be the first person I stabbed. Though it would be the first time I did it with a pen..."

"Seriously?"

"There's a reason I'm going to the M-Unit." 

"You think you'll be okay up there? I mean… there's some pretty crazy people on that Unit. There's one guy up there they said stabbed his wife 43 times with a paring knife."

"I'm a lot more awake now… I can handle myself." Root shrugged, "What about you? You're a little lively for this ward, don't you think?"

"I've been waiting for a bed on A-Unit for two and a half months," Sarah said. "They're afraid I'll check out again if they just release me.

"Step down unit? Well done."

"I'm going to miss you though. I mean we didn't get to talk much, cause you weren't talking but, it was nice having someone around that was able to see how fucked up it is in here. I could tell you knew… even if you didn't say it."

"That's an understatement. It's a madhouse. Literally." Root took a moment to observe her completed manicure. "Thank you for this, sincerely. My hands haven't looked like my hands since I got here."

"I should have known you were a black nail polish kind of girl," Sarah smirked. "Do you think we'll ever see each other on the outside?"

"Probably not face to face," Root admitted, "But when I'm not stuck in a place like this… I'm  _ always  _ on the internet. Look me up some time."

"How do I find you?"

"You won't… but I'll find you when I hear you're looking, and I will hear you're looking."

"Looking for Robin Farrow?"

"Of course not. That's not my name."

"I know… I know… but God won't let you tell anyone you're real name."

"Well… certainly not the staff," Root leaned in conspiratorially, "but can you keep a secret?"  Sarah screwed the cap back on the nail polish, and leaned in expectantly. "I already told everyone, before I knew I shouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

" **My name is Root.** "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand... that's the end. Of this fic. I put a stop to it right there because. Bam. Bookends. My brain is still a runaway train, so... I might just kind of vomit up another 20 chapters on Root's adventures on the M-Unit, with Dr. Carmichael et. al. If I do I'll put this and that in a series together. I don't know. But... I finished a story, for the first time in... ever. Yay!


End file.
